


The Innate Homoerotic Implications of Michael Jackson

by greensweater



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), Ineffable Idiots (Good Omens), Kissing, Love Confessions, M/M, they love each other guys :')
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-14
Updated: 2020-12-14
Packaged: 2021-03-10 18:34:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,004
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28061766
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/greensweater/pseuds/greensweater
Summary: In all his six thousand years, Crowley had never seen anything so indecent."You? Listening to Michael Jackson?" he asked Aziraphale incredulously.Aziraphale paused the cassette player (he reallywasgetting the hang of these modern gadgets, wasn't he!) and looked at Crowley, bewildered. "He's the king of pop."
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 4
Kudos: 35





	The Innate Homoerotic Implications of Michael Jackson

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this a year and a half ago and then forgot about it until tonight! Enjoy.

In all his six thousand years, Crowley had never seen anything so indecent.

" _You_? Listening to Michael Jackson?" he asked Aziraphale incredulously. 

Aziraphale paused the cassette player (he really _was_ getting the hang of these modern gadgets, wasn't he!) and looked at Crowley, bewildered. "He's the king of pop."

"Pop! The king of pop, you say!" Crowley chortled (he did love that word. Very sexy and demonic, the word 'chortle.' Perhaps he'd make it the slogan of some beauty company's new product line, just for fun). "You don't know who Elton John is, angel. Nor any modern pop artists such as, I dunno, Beyonce. Lady Gaga. Or, Satan help me, _Queen_."

"Lady Ga-ga," Aziraphale muttered, chewing over the words. "Was she one of yours?"

Crowley thought about it for a moment. "Can't recall."

…

Now, what you have to understand about Anthony J. Crowley is that he could be a bit ragingly insecure. Sure, he didn't look it, and it was rather out of fashion among his sort of demonic crowd, but it's hard not to feel a little inadequate when God had literally booted you right out of heaven for being, to put it simply, _too damn annoying with all the questions and whatnot._ (Lucifer had started a whole revolution! And he had done it with style, instead of being unceremoniously booted out of the halos-and-harps crowd. Some days that really grated on Crowley's nerves.) To put it simply, Crowley's whole situation wasn't really all that peachy, if you thought about it hard enough (and he had, and then he'd repressed it, as all demons and angels and humans do if left alone long enough). The act of sauntering vaguely downwards was, of course, a choice, but the initial leaving certainly wasn't his decision. He'd wanted to create at least one more solar system before he left, one more beautiful thing in the sky upon which to gaze on clear, cold nights.

…

Two weeks later, and Aziraphale was getting rather annoyed with the whole situation.

"Crowley, I have TASTES, you know," he said one morning, ruffled. "I like the music that I like and you like…” He shuddered. “Vivaldi."

Crowley slowly uncurled himself from Aziraphale's VERY comfortable sofa (he'd slept over the night before, as he did most nights these days). "But this is different," he argued. "Michael Jackson. Pop." He said that last word with a hard emphasis on the final _p_.

"All right, I will give you that he is rather—well, nice-looking—for a human, anyway, but—"

" _Oh_. So _that’s_ it, I see," Crowley interrupted, quirking one sharp eyebrow and prowling over to lean sulkily by the antique (well, wasn't _everything_ antique in that flat?) wooden dresser. "You found him. Hot. Bangable. Attractive."

" _Really_ , Crowley,' Aziraphale sputtered. "Absolutely ridiculous—how _dare_ you—he might be fine of feature, but to even _suggest_ —"

"Bangable," Crowley repeated, raising his eyebrow even higher than it had been.

Aziraphale deflated. "Bangable," he said mournfully. "If you would use such a crass term to--to describe such a vague combination of aesthetic appeal and physical attraction then--yes, I suppose it must be. There. Are you satisfied?"

Throughout this whole monologue, Crowley's mouth had been getting thinner and thinner, usually a sign of stress or nerves or some other influx of negative emotion that he encouraged in others but absolutely could not tolerate in himself.

"Yes," he all but snarled. "Perfectly satisfied."

Aziraphale raised one fluffy eyebrow to match Crowley's, mouth falling open at the sheer indignity of what had just transpired. "My dear boy! I do believe you're… jealous."

…

Now, the thing you have to realize about Aziraphale is that God had not given him the gift of subtlety. (He wore clothes centuries out of date and only opened his bookshop from two to four in the afternoon, yet miraculously never went out of business. Thank—well— _somebody_ for the beautiful chaos that was London, as both Crowley and Aziraphale had been able to do very well there, in the manner of being inconspicuous.)

As much as his superiors had attempted to train it out of him, his particular combination of naivety and sheer bluntness often landed him in several unfortunate situations. (See: accidentally colluding with Nazis, helpfully pointing out to Napoleon that no one had ever invaded Russia in winter, et cetera.)

Aziraphale followed his impulses, most of the time (a very _human_ thing to do). And when something was right in front of his nose—well. What else could he do but point it out?

… 

"I can't believe you! Well, perhaps I can," allowed Aziraphale. "You _are_ a demon, after all."

"What's _that_ got to do with it?" asked Crowley, injured.

"Jealousy! One of the seven deadly sins," Aziraphale all but whispered (it was silly, but in the back of his mind he couldn't quite believe that there was no one watching them, no heavenly boss from upstairs waiting to swoop in if he said something off-color.) "It would make sense if you were to be. Erm. If you found yourself. In the position to be—"

"Me? Ha! You've outdone yourself, angel, really. _Jealous_ ," Crowley scoffed, thumbs in the pockets of his rather-too-tight leather pants, cool as a cucumber. (Or so he thought. In reality, if steam could be shooting from his ears, it would have been. Really, he had quite admirably contained himself from such dramatic displays in times such as these.)

"Well. I'm sorry to have insinuated," Aziraphale said graciously. The tea kettle began to whistle, and he bustled off to turn off the heat with an "oh dear, I'd forgotten the kettle!"

With Aziraphale momentarily occupied, Crowley let go of the steam building up in his ear canals. It is fairly certain that he turned a funny tomato-like color while doing so. He tore off his sunglasses, yellow eyes a stunning contrast to his temporary crimson face. "Michael Jackson!" he hissed. "Not even Beethoven, the great bastard."

At that moment, Aziraphale hurried back into the room with a tray of tea and a generous assortment of biscuits, scones, and cakes. Crowley's face went immediately normal-hued, and the sunglasses jumped back on his nose. His great pains to remain casual were, thankfully, not noted by Aziraphale, who was never any sort of perceptive when it came to others.

"Looks positively sinful," Crowley drawled, taking a momentary pleasure in the dirty look Aziraphale shot him.

"I wouldn't say that," Aziraphale said with an air of injury. "Maybe 'lovely' or 'delicious' would do, and a 'thank you Aziraphale' to top it all off, hmm?"

A muttered _thank you Aziraphale_ was heard through a mouthful of biscuit. 

Aziraphale nodded. All was right with the world. (Or so he thought. Crowley hid his feelings well—in this case, behind crunchy, sugary treats. The remaining steam was contained—for now.)

… 

An unspecified length of time later, Crowley sat on Aziraphale’s couch, where he usually could be found these days—although he tolerated his house, and couldn’t bear the thought of his houseplants being left to relax for more than a day or two, Aziraphale’s couch was just—well, it was _soft_. Comfortable. And there was always a mug of cocoa left conveniently on the side table, miracled to never get cold. And sometimes Aziraphale would ask to visit their friends, Anathema and Newt and the (ugh) the children, a request at which he sniffed and called Aziraphale _horridly sentimental, aren’t you, angel_ and went to start up the car, secretly pleased.

“Crowley,” Aziraphale said, bustling over with a plate of gingersnaps. He had perfected his recipe the month before, and ever since baked the biscuits in droves, leaving plates all over the bookshop, Crowley’s flat, the street, and even (memorably) the Prime Minister’s office, which had caused a minor security scandal.

“Yes, angel?” He looked up from his cocoa, which he was pretending as hard as he could not to enjoy.

Aziraphale stood there and hesitated. His normally prim and proper expression had fallen into a rather unreadable one, a nervousness in his stance. He put the plate on the side-table. 

“ _Yes_?” Crowley repeated, letting slight irritation seep into his words. He had things to _do_ , after all. Evil things. Cocoa, first, then evil deeds so monstrous they’d make the devil gasp.

“The Michael Jackson thing,” Aziraphale began, and Crowley scoffed as loudly as he could.

“Oh, let it go. It’s not as though you were getting all hot and bothered over someone _realistic_ , someone attainable, someone we _knew_ \--well, if it were someone we knew, then that’d be a whole ‘nother story—”

“Crowley, do you love me?”

Crowley choked unceremoniously on his cocoa. “What,” he croaked.

Aziraphale was still staring at him with that open, soft expression. How could he have known, Crowley thought furiously, and then thought, how could he have only figured me out _now_.

“Well, _love_ , in the post-modern sense of the world, is just a concept invented by humans to stave off loneliness—”

“Oh, stop it!” Aziraphale interrupted, and Crowley was so shocked he could only stare. “You’re avoiding this, again, and I simply won’t stand for it. I— I want you to tell me. I want you to say it back.”

“Say it back— angel, what—”

“I love you,” said Aziraphale firmly, his cheeks a bright scarlet. Crowley had scarcely ever seen the angel this fervent, aside from his many vigorous cake and theater and architectural opinions. But never about another person. Never about him, about the feelings he had. “I love you, Crowley.”

Crowley sputtered. “You need me to say it _back_? I’ve said it a million times, and you’ve never even acknowledged me, much less said it back.” He paused, gathering his thoughts, tearing off his sunglasses, which had begun to melt on the bridge of his nose. “I saved those books for you. I disobeyed hell for you. I grieved over you, when you discorporated, right in front of you. I—I _asked_ , Aziraphale, back in the 1970s, and you looked me in the face and told me no. I asked you to run away with me, and you looked at me and told me no, again. So what the heaven was I supposed to think? I thought—” and here Crowley broke off and looked away. “I thought you just wanted to be workplace associates,” he muttered, physically forcing the steam in his ears to stay put.

“I’m sorry, Crowley.”

Crowley forced himself to look at the angel— _his_ angel, who was looking genuinely very sorry. “Well, it’s alright _now_. Now that I know that you actually—” A bit of steam escaped his ears, but in an appropriately muted way. Aziraphale didn’t seem to care. “Well. I’m glad it’s me, that you’ve chosen.”

“It’s always been you, dear Crowley.” Aziraphale’s eyes were tender, a soft, clear blue that shone with the absolute conviction that this statement, at least, was true.

Crowley let in a stuttering breath. For _fuck’s_ sake. He closed his eyes, waiting—Aziraphale went “Oh!” and kissed him.

… 

For someone with very little experience in the kissing realm, Crowley did a rather bang-up job of it, Aziraphale thought dazedly. They had been kissing for quite a while now— as supernatural beings, they didn’t need to sleep, or eat, or even breathe as much as humans did— and that made for a marathon of a kiss.

He didn’t think he would get tired of it for a while, though. Eventually he would suggest dinner at the Ritz, to celebrate. Maybe a weekend trip to Anathema and Newt’s cottage, a fortnight in Florence next, then a jettison to Lima, and then… who knew?

Aziraphale broke the kiss first, merely because his lips were getting rather numb. Crowley’s eyes were still closed, and when he snapped them open, they were a liquid, burning gold.

“Beautiful,” said Aziraphale fondly (Crowley blushed, but would refuse to admit it later), and took his hand.

“Let me guess,” Crowley drawled. “The Ritz.”

“It _is_ tradition, my dear boy.”

And off they went.

**Author's Note:**

> Please leave a comment and kudos if you liked! :)


End file.
